A Midnight Chat
by maomao64
Summary: Oneshot: an unknown observer's view of the war


**A Midnight Chat**

I looked out the window. I felt strangely compelled to him. Him—the young, blonde wizard in an old folding chair.

His torso was slouched over, his head kept in its place only by those fine, pale hands holding it up, braced between his knees and forehead. His hair fell untidily over his face, hiding those burning, silver eyes whose depths I so loved to drown myself in. The outer strands, already pale gold, stood glaring white against the bright moon, like the sun in this cold, dark world we exist in.

I opened the glass door, stepping carefully over the threshold, and sat down on the creaky stool beside him. I cool breeze swept by, chilling my bones. I shivered.

"Where's your coat?" He had turned to me, in a laborious effort of lifting his head. Of, perhaps, lifting his spirits.

"Inside."

His head inched down, then back up. The slightest nod. And his head was back on his hands, his elbows on his knees, his hair in his eyes.

I leaned forward, folding my arms to keep my hands out of the wintry nighttime air. I tucked my feet under the stool. Another useless attempt to keep out the cold.

"What are you doing out here?" Just an awkward icebreaker. I knew what he was doing out here. Same thing I'd tried so many years ago. Back to yesteryear, in the days of my youth.

Before this damned war, before the presence of enemies gripping hatred a thousand fold deeper than our own childish, petty dislikes, made us chose sides. Before we were forced to prematurely enter a society we never should have approached—adulthood.

Back when my greatest worries were a low grade in school, a fight with a friend. I'd come out here to this porch, so sit and wallow in my sorrows.

The old chair had been shiny and new, then. The creaky stool had stood solid. Back then.

Now, our problems were greater. Financial breakdown. Fatal threats. Death of a loved one. And the worst of all—the time that moved too fast, but too slow.

Too fast for us to fully grasp what was happening around us, before whisking us off to a brand new set of problems and challenges. To slow in passing, as if sluggishly dragging along for the simple purpose of prolonging our pain.

"You should go inside. It's cold." He hadn't moved—just spoken from behind his hands.

"I'm fine." I repressed another shiver.

A cricket chirped in the yew bush. Its cry came out strangled—a violinist's bow caught in the string. Loudly and clearly. There was a rustle and one squawk, and a bird emerged from the bush, a cricket in its beak.

The moonlight glittered off the winged creature's dark eyes, gleamed off its beak, as it paused, perched on the quivering branch too thin and too unsteady to support the heavy load forced upon it. With a beat of its wings, the sound of air being pushed echoing three times, the bird lifted off.

I hope there are more crickets in that bush. I hope that one last was not the only brave soul in its miniature world—a miniature world within a much bigger universe—to venture out from its hiding place in the moss and dead leaves, and face the dangers head on. I hope there are others.

What a hypocrite I am.

"Goodnight, Draco."

He didn't reply.

I stood quickly and walked briskly to the closed door. I looked inside.

Those people in there—those partying redheads, that brooding brunette, that wavering, black haired boy—they are only on a short vacation away from this world of violence and terror. Soon, their time will be up and the world will crash down on them.

That black haired boy—I hope he isn't the only one.

I pushed open the door, and stepped back into the house.

The warm air swirled around me, welcoming me into the space. Loud people cheered as they drank their hundredth glasses of some form of alcohol. The big, roaring fire in the hearth crackled as people danced to the blaring music. Feet stomped, shaking the ground, shaking the cups, both empty and fill, squeezed into the nonexistent table space.

The dark mauve liquid in the nearest cup shivered.

I trudged across the floor, quietly through the crowd of loud people, the noises of the party muffled by my unwilling ears.

I hope those two boys—that one with blonde hair and that black haired one—I hope they survive.

I hope _we_ survive.


End file.
